Elemental

This week I went into the school chapel. I found there a large silver bowl into which I had poured sand during Lent. It had not been touched since and the sand had gone hard and heavy. The bowl had been intended as the receptacle of many prayers for family, friends and loved ones during the season of Lent. But, it had never been used.

In Lent, after a long discussion with those in charge of such things, it was decided that to have unsupervised devotional candles in Chapel was a bad idea. Instead, ordered to my pigeon hole, came small battery operated tea lights that could be neatly placed before the altar.

Fake Candles.

Something about this bothered me. But, I am not about to start a revolution. I can see the health and safety point. However, prayer for me is not electronic. It is elemental, real. The tools for prayer are tools through which I can reflect on the presence of the divine incarnate in this world: earth (posture), air (breathing), fire (inspiration) and water (reminder of my baptism, calling to serve). A fake candle was about as far from real inspiration as I could get. 

Still there were other elements I could include in a safe environment that could bring the beating heart back to prayer: wood, salt, bread, wine. Therefore, Lent passed without me making too much of a fuss. I was touched by the number of small flickering electrics lights were turned on each day, and even had to change some batteries.

Soon we will arrive at the Feasts of the Sacred Hearts. I am reminded of it by the turn of the liturgy to Pentecost and Trinity, and by my dreams. Perhaps you will remember an odd dream I had of a party, with Jambalaya and Rose, music, dancing, good company and a green ring. That dream was about friendship, love and vocation I suppose, although I never really understood it. Well, the ring is back in recent dreams, shiny and green as it ever was. Last night I was travelling on pilgrimage (walking), and then by bus with a group, some were friends, but others i did not know. There was a man there wearing the ring (no longer Timothy Radcliffe TBTG), but I did not know where he was leading. I was happy and content to follow along, not afraid anymore. I was sometimes silent and taking in the view, sometimes talking to others, always keeping my eye on the diamond green.  My dreams are like a serial novel, I am always waiting for the next episode. I look forward to the next instalment.

Ironically, I do not put great stock by dreams. I would rather write about reality, the way things are in flesh and blood, than hark on about the imaginings within the dark recesses of my mind.

I am haunted by the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary. Do not run away. I am not mad. But, in my dreams and day dreams I often see them in my mind's eye. On the occasions when I struggle to sleep, in my mind, it is to the chapel of the Sacred Heart I walk, stand, wonder, pray. None of this is that unusual I do not suppose, some people lie awake and count sheep, some stare at stars, I go walking. All my little mental trips to the heart of the divine have the same theme: God and faith occupy messy everyday reality. Hearts beat in flesh and blood, they need earth, air, fire and water to begin; bread and wine to continue. If the Feasts of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary are about anything they are about how special the love of Christ and His Mother is. Special not because they are separate from the fundamental basics of everyday living, those elements that make us real, but because they are part of them.

I suspect that is way I was bothered by the fake candles. Fire is elemental. You cannot deconstruct it, take it apart, turn it off and on again. For me, prayer is elemental too. Basic, not complicated: 'My heart is restless, O God, until it rests in you'  - Augustine

Truth (a repost)

Wisdom to learn

Knowledge to reason

Judgement to listen

Courage to speak

Understanding to love

Reverence to worship

Wonder to live

I wrote this some time ago, and this is the third time I have posted it on this blog. It is the season of Pentecost and so these gifts have been on my mind. Do I use them well? Pray for them when they are lacking? 

Be good to yourself, be good to others

I have been trying to be more healthy of late. This has led to me looking up and experimenting with new and exciting recipes, ones with less of everything that is meant to be bad for me and more of everything that is meant to be good for me.

I am reluctant 'dieter'. In fact, I hate the word. I find it positively offensive when people refer to certain foods as 'sinful', 'naughty' or 'bad'. If I were to use the word 'sinful' to describe food it would be because the way in which it was produced was in some way evil. For example, I recently read the tragic case of Burmese slaves being kept on board ships and forced to work, under the threat of violence and death, so that their bosses could be part of the supply chain that brings us in the UK prawns. Prawns are delicious, but they are not worth that. Under those circumstances, with the knowledge I have, eating prawns produced in Thailand, likely to have been produced in one of these supply chain lines, would be sinful. 

Tonight I ate Peach and Chickpea curry. It was an experiment, a first. And, it was delicious! The recipe came from the lovely, inspiring Jack Munroe. A woman who has single handedly brought the issue of food poverty to the attention of political leaders. Recently Jack has been feeding herself on just £5 per week in order to demonstrate the reality of trying to live below the poverty line in the UK. You can read about here campaign here. 

So then, food can be good, and food can be bad, but none of that has anything to do with the harvest of good and beautiful nature itself. Food in it's natural state is good, good, good. The work of divine and human hands. Food is one of the many things that completely unites the human family, we all need it. So, food is also one of those things through which we can be fair to, and conscious of others. Everything I cook in my kitchen has been sown, grown, picked, packed, transported and sold by a neighbour. Knowing that, thinking that through each day, helps when it comes to remembering to buy fair and waste not.

Here is Jack's recipie. It is amazing. Try it.

250g tinned chickpeas

1 onion

1 clove of garlic

1 chilli

a splash of oil

a shake of ground cumin

1 vegetable stock cube

1 x 400g tin of peaches

1 x tin of chopped tomatoes

a handful of fresh coriander

(I measured nothing, used an extra sweet red bell pepper, and replaced coriander with spinach, but there you go)

Drain, rinse and boil your chickpeas in fresh water for 10 minutes. Finely chop the onion, garlic and chilli, and fry this gently in a pan. Add cumin.

Drain the tin of peaches, reserving the sweet juice. Chop the peaches into generous chunks. Add these to the gently simmering onion mixture and sprinkle the stock cube over. Add the sweet peach juice mixture. Add the chopped tomatoes and coriander. Cook gently for about 30 minutes, until all the flavours have blended.

Serve with plain boiled white rice.

Yummy.

Be gentle when you touch bread

Be gentle, when you touch bread,
Let it not be uncared for, unwanted.
So often bread is taken for granted.
There is so much beauty in bread,
Beauty of sun and soil,
Beauty of patient toil.
Winds and rain have caressed it,
Christ often blessed it;
Be gentle when you touch bread.

Be loving when you drink wine,
So freely received and joyfully shared
in the spirit of him who cared;
Warm as a flowing river,
Shining as clear as the sun,
Deep as the soil
Of human toil,
The winds and air caressed it,
Christ often blessed it,
Be loving when you drink wine.

Attributed to David Adam, a former miner and Canon of York Minster.

Bees

Spring has sprung. My herb garden looks wild and very healthy. Everything is growing and growing so fast I can almost see it. 

I wish I had time to stop and watch it. 

I have been busy. Not, I'm so self-important and stressed out busy, but wonderfully busy. Like a bee.

That reminds me, since it is still the Easter season, of what took my attention at the Easter Vigil this year. It was the bees. 

The Deacon sings the Exultet at the beginning of the Mass. In the second half of the hymn he presents the Paschal Candle, or Easter Candle, which burns in the Church all through the Easter Season, and through the year on Solemn occasions such as Baptisms. This is what he sings. 

On this, your night of grace, O holy Father,accept this candle, a solemn offering, the work of bees and of your servants' hands, an evening sacrifice of praise, this gift from your most holy Church.  

But now we know the praises of this pillar, a flame divided but undimmed, which glowing fire ignites for God's honour, a fire into many flames divided, yet never dimmed by sharing of its light, for it is fed by melting wax, drawn out by mother bees to build a torch so precious. 

O truly blessed night, when things of heaven are wed to those of earth, and divine to the human. 

Therefore, O Lord,we pray you that this candle,hallowed to the honour of your name,may persevere undimmed,to overcome the darkness of this night. Receive it as a pleasing fragrance,and let it mingle with the lights of heaven. May this flame be found still burning by the Morning Star:the one Morning Star who never sets, Christ your Son, who, coming back from death's domain, has shed his peaceful light on humanity, and lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen.

Although I have heard the Exultet many times, this year was the first year I have ever paid any attention to the bees. But, here they are in a starring role, honoured for their hard work and dedication in the greatest hymn of praise and thanksgiving the Church has to offer! I thought that was very cool indeed.

I am getting married this summer (*glee and joy*), and recently I was visiting my husband-to-be and his family in Yorkshire. We found a very sleepy bee sitting on the window sill. Honey was fetched and the little chap took his fill, then he was gently carried to the back door and laid down outside. It was dark and chilly, and we all waited to see what he would do. After a few moments of recollection he took off high into the air, straight up! Then, after hovering for a few seconds he flew off, hopefully to home. Maybe, when he got back, he did a special dance that said, go up the hill to that house fake a sleep and you get fed honey. Soon there will be a steady stream of bees snoozing on the windowsill. 

Bees are so little, but we cannot live without them. They dance around, barely noticed by us, but without them we would have no food, no flowers, no candles. The things of heaven are wed to those of earth, so it is an easy jump, in my thought anyway, to go from bees to the little things I cannot live without, things no one else might notice: a hug, a touch, an 'I love you'; a 'thank you', a phone call, a message, a letter; time with family, time with friends, a meal shared together. Such are the things I thought about when the Deacon sang about the honey bee at Easter. Such are the things I am still thinking about now.

A herb garden explained

I should be marking Year 7 projects. I've been meaning to do it all day, but procrastination has won again.

Yesterday I raided my Ma's garden, and adding to some herbs I had bought previously that week and some plants generously bought for me by my twin sister, Gemma, I made a herb garden. I was so happy. I only have a small pavement covered space at the back of my flat. I miss terribly my two great allotment fields in Bedfordshire. One day I am going to have an allotment again, or better still, a garden of my own. In the meantime, paradise has to spread its rays from terracotta in the yard, and it does so as if it were the sun shining after rain. Most of my 'lost time' today was time spent sitting and looking at my newly loved herbs and flowers.

Let me tell you about them. First, by the door in a macrame pot hanger I made (it keeps the '70's vibe), is trailing verbena, tumbelina and surfinia. Verbena, medievalists amongst you should know, wards off ghosts, goblins, vampires and other evils. It brings good fortune and is called the 'holy herb' for its gifts of healing, compassion, gentleness and love to the household. Tumbelina and Surfinia are both types of trailing petunias. I know of no great tales to tell of their significance, but their purples and pinks will be beautiful next to the gentle gold of the verbena flowers. Above these great specimens, also in the hanging baskets, are violas - the symbol of the ancient city of Athens and of constancy. The Romans made wine from their flowers, and later wound the blossoms into great garlands to cure hangovers, but I am not convinced that is either tasty or effective!

Next, in the pots, there are two Rosemary plants, one a bush planted into a blue strawberry planter, and the other standing tall in a terracotta urn. The flowers of the Rosemary bush were said to have been white until the Flight into Egypt, then the Blessed Virgin dried Christ's clothes upon the shrub and ever since they have been blue; or, perhaps, she cast her cloak over the bush and hid from passing Romans? Either way, Rosemary is said to ward off evil: a sprig under the bed cures bad dreams, a sprig in your bridal bouquet brings faithfulness and, a sprig on the doorstep keeps thieves at bay.

Thyme sits in the first large blue pot. It is an ancient symbol of courage and was worn sewn into the shirts of the Crusaders with this in mind. Marjoram, called 'joy of the mountains', grows next to it, a symbol of happiness in the home and life everlasting. Cats love it, and the medieval herbalists used it as a treatment against fleas. Actually, modern flea treatments use it too (not that I have a cat, or fleas!). I planted 'forgetmenots' in one of the terracotta pots that is decorated with the shell of St. James. I did this just because I am an old romantic, long more that anything to return to the Camino and hope I will never be forgotten in prayer by good old St. James. But, the forgetmenot has a history in folklore too: Somerset travellers would not leave the door without it, for it imbued them with fortitude for the road ahead.

Sage comes next with its' peculiar tale. Sage is a symbol of fertility and fecundity. It is said that where it grows daughters will be born to a family. It brings a spirit of rejuvenation and eternal youth, 'he that would live for aye, must eat sage in May'. In the pot next door Oregano lives, an ancient symbol of honour and happiness. Chives and flat leaved parsley grow in the same tall pot beyond that. Chives have a dual symbolism of dreams and practicality, the essence of their message being, 'why do you weep? Get up and live'; Parsley is another symbol of fertility, an aphrodisiac with many superstitions surrounding its' transplanting. It should only be moved on Good Friday, I read. I hope a Tuesday in Lent will do! Mint is the final herb, and according the folklore it invades every corner of household life. Where mint flourishes, so does love, health and happiness within the home. Plant it in pots though, for if it is out of control so is everything else!

There is one more pot, and in it are tiny trailing lobelia plants. Lobelia is used to 'call the butterflies', through it comes the rare, transitory beauty of the seasons. Lobelia is a symbol of 'the moment', and a call to appreciate each day as it comes, looking neither to the past nor the future.

So, there it is: my herb garden. It doesn't look much yet, but it will. And, if it reaps all the fruits of its' symbolism it will be the most amazing herb garden ever planted. I will use every herb in that garden, and will be sad when the season is over and I must let the plants sleep. In the meantime, I am going to make the most of it every day, and if that means a few hours are lost watching the plants grow, so be it.

A blog of thankfulness

Back in October my school held its Staff Retreat. This only happens once every two years, but it is always a happy occasion. This year Fr. Roger Dawson SJ came and spoke with us. His talk was inspiring, and it felt as though he has planned it knowing I would be one of his listeners (perhaps everyone felt like that). He spoke about life's journey, the ups and downs, and he used his experience of walking the Camino de Santiago as his guide. 

Well, as you can see, he was on my wave length, for I too have great memories of that pilgrimage, and learnt many things through my own journey. Fr. Roger drew many lessons from the pilgrimage. He spoke about Ignatius of Loyola's 'Consolations of the Spirit', little moments in which you know you are on the right path. These 'consolations', he explained, are moments in which you receive energy from the place, time and task you are in. We recognise such times easily when we are happy in our work, or with our friends. But, such energy and strength can also come at sadder times, such as when you are in the right place at the right time, grieving with a friend or nursing the sick for example. Fr. Roger likened these 'consolations of the spirit' to the yellow arrows which mark the way to Santiago de Compostela. You never know when they might appear, or on what they might be painted, but when you need them, they'll be there, pointing you in the right direction.

I have had cause to think about what Fr. Roger said recently. I remembered he encouraged us to keep a daily notebook and in it record, at the end of the day, everything we are grateful for. Little things, he said, like the bus driver who waits for you, or the children that help you move your classroom desks; a delicious meal prepared by a loved one, or a kind word from a colleague. Keeping such a diary, he said, would change the way you see and experience the world around you. I loved this idea, and tried it for at least a month. It worked, and really did help me to see things rightly.  But, after a while I began to forget to stop still in the evening, was too busy marking, cooking or reading to be writing in my little book of thankfulness.

Then the school retreat came round, Lent was beginning and I was going to be asked to lead a workshop on 'Faith and Journey'. Fr. Roger's idea came back to me. As part of my session I would ask my students to use post-its to decorate a huge wall with all the things in their lives they were grateful for. It was a really touching exercise, we had a few laughs and a few tears. But, after a week or so, the board was taken down and I forgot about it. Maybe my students did too.

The other day a fellow blogger, Mulier Fortis, was looking for inspiration, and I tweeted 'how about a blog of thankfulness?'. I didn't even think about it much, but a while later my phone went 'Ping!' and I noted she had 'favourited' the tweet. I was happy.

Today I found my little book of thankfulness from October. There are simple things recorded in there that make me smile, like the time I saw seven rainbows on a day out walking in November, or game of scrabble in which I laughed and lost. I am delighted to have found this little book today, and I will take up writing in it again. I'll try not to forget this time. It has been a brilliant month in many ways, and I should be grateful for the many happinesses there are in my life, but too often I worry about the work I should be doing, or the money I do not have. Life is too short for such nonsense.

I calculated I only have £10 left 'til payday, but in my new spirit of thankfulness I found I had some great ingredients for dinners for the rest of this week. I am grateful for:

Butternut Squash Risotto (made with Chillies and Parmesan)

Cauliflower Cheese (Smoked cheddar)

Homemade bread (with an apple in it)

Carrot and Parsnip Soup

And the fabulous things I am going to make with potatoes, mushrooms and bacon (to be confirmed). I think I'll save the £10 for wine on Friday. :-)

Love life, love spring

I returned again to the Peak District this weekend. We walked from Hathersage up Stanage Edge via Denis Knoll. The sun was shining, and there was warmth in its rays if you hunkered down into shelter. By a small brook called 'Old Sheep Dip' we ate a feast of hot roast pork sandwiches, with crackling and apple sauce. We sipped hot coffee. It was tempting to stay there all afternoon, to curl up in a grassy hollow, bathe in the sunlight, snooze and watch the clouds whizz by. 

I wanted to write a post about how I felt to to be free in the outdoors. Those who know and love me know the relief I feel once I can escape into the freedom of the wind, sunshine, rain, snow. I adore my job, I really do, but I long to be outdoors all the time. I wait, looking longingly out of windows. I am patient. Then at the weekend, I spring.

This weekend, spring had sprung, but the cold was still with us. I stood up from our blissful picnic spot and the cold breeze caused me to zip up both fleeces and a raincoat. March: the sun is warm, but the wind is bitter. As the saying goes: 'March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb'. By the end of the month even the most delicate of buds will have braved the fresh air.

We turned to face the wind and, bent double to shield our chests from the cold, walked down the road. In a ditch by the roadside something moved in the water. I stopped, went closer. There, in the sunshine and shelter Mr and Mrs Frog had been busy. There were millions of tiny eggs bustling in groups on the surface. Underneath little black tadpoles teemed. And, hidden amongst it all, the industrious mother and proud father. No predators had yet found their home. They looked happy.

A hat was called for as we reached the top of Stanage Edge. The wind was strong enough to knock me from my feet. There were many people up there, but all was quiet. Conversation isn't free flowing in a gale. We stopped and looked out at the view, the village from which we had come, the tiny matchstick people down below. Once you see how small everything is from on high worries disappear on the breeze. There is nothing more relaxing and nothing more breath taking than looking at an expanse of beautiful, amazing, awe inspiring creation.

I met a hairy caterpillar on the way down. He seemed out of place. Perhaps had been dropped by a bird that did not think he was going to be tasty. He was in the middle of the path. I hid him in the bracken. He curled up when I touched him, furry defences poking out. I loved him. I hope he lives to be a butterfly.

Now it is Monday, and the weekend seems far away already. My tea is in the oven, it is a simple sausage casserole with onions, carrots and chicken stock. I'll eat it with crusty bread and a glass of wine (Feast of St. Patrick). I found a poem that explains how heaven and the outdoors share a space in my psyche. Here I share it with you.

In The Fields

Lord when I look at lovely things which pass,  

Under old trees the shadow of young leaves

Dancing to please the wind along the grass, 

 Or the gold stillness of the August sun on the August sheaves;

Can I believe there is a heavenlier world than this?  

And if there is

Will the heart of any everlasting thing  

Bring me these dreams that take my breath away?

They come at evening with the home-flying rooks and the scent of hay,

Over the fields. They come in spring.

In the Fields: Charlotte Mew

Simple supper?

Friday night. The first Friday in Lent. I am exhausted. School has been madness. I thought this evening would never come.

On Ash Wednesday I had all sorts of bright, pious ideas of what I could give up in Lent. By Friday, heading to open up chapel at 7am this morning, simple things were enough. The chocolate, the cake, the pastries - all those creature comforts I rely on to get me through the day....they were staying. I'll pray whenever you want me to, all the time if you please. I'll support charity fundraisers and give to those in need as much as I am able. But, to do those two things, I need chocolate to keep me going. And cake. And wine. Happily, to some extent, Isaiah was with me (check the readings for today).

And so it came to supper of the first Friday in Lent. Present in the fridge were:

500ml cream
milk
wholegrain mustard
smoked and peppered mackerel
potatoes
milk
rocket salad.


With a little salt and pepper, a meal could not go wrong...unless, of course, you were on a diet. I sliced the potatoes into pound coin slices, mixed milk and cream (all of it) with mustard, salt and pepper. I layered the potatoes into a small pyrex dish, and ripped apart a smoked mackerel fillet, layering it on top. More potatoes, more mackerel, more potatoes, more mackerel, more potatoes. I poured the cream, milk, salt and pepper over the top, until it covered the top layer just a little. The whole lot was in the oven for 1 hour at 200C. I served it with a handful of rocket and a cold glass of wine. It was heaven.

Yeah, anyway, spider plants

So, Ash Wednesday came and it went. In school we had the 'Whole School Retreat'. I have written about that before. It was beautiful, and at times moved me. I am often amazed at the strength of faith students have. There were touching moments of us together as a school community; I will never forget distributing the ashes. I remember the experience from two years ago. There is nothing more powerful than first receiving the ashes, 'Repent and believe the Good News of the Gospel', and then distributing them to the school community. This year there were several moments I will remember. The line of stylish Year 8 students, one after the other, grinning and sporting excellent side slung fringes I needed to deftly flick out of the way; the faithful Sikh student who approached pushing his turban a little higher so as I could reach his forehead; the cradle Catholics who looked doubtful; the Muslim students who adjusted their veils; the embarrassed, the faithful, the grinning, the meek. And, to each and every one, the words, 'Repent and believe the Good News of the Gospel' or 'Remember thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return'.

After all that 'turning back', all that refocusing and readjusting, what should one do with one's evening? That was my question. Tempting as though it was, wine was out of the question. So, I came home and walked about my tiny flat. The spider plants were bursting at the seems to be let out. I headed to B and Q, they would be open after 5.30pm, surely? And, surely they were. I bought huge wooden pots, homes for life. Then, when I returned, I gently rehoused my little pets. They were given to me, of course. Gemma gave her spider plant babies to me, she had received hers from Emma, a friend of ours. Perhaps now my spider plants are happy in their new home, they will have little ones I can give to others.

Now my Spider plants are happy, I love them more than ever. They are going to grow and grow, and I will watch them do it. I am looking forward to the day they have many offspring, and hang out of their pot looking fruitful and abundant.

For me, this Spider plant business was a good start to Lent. I am not very good at giving things up. I am quite good at taking things up though. Looking after my house plants might be a start, taking care of those around me might follow, praying for others follows that, and doing good comes as a result. If my Lent grows as fast as my Spider plants, I'll be happy.